


You weren't born to be happy

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Mentions of Prostitution, Oneshot, Post-Game, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 23:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The game is over and Dave remembers everything. The others do as well, but most dare not say anything, and most have not found one another. The game is the triggering memory that can't be real, shut in the back of their heads. Coping is hard, for all of them.</p><p>Dave just assumes he's crazy.</p><p>Well, it's not like he's the real Dave anyways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You weren't born to be happy

And you're alone. You feel so worthless. No one will hire you for anything but this, and even now you're with an amateur. 

Was with an amateur. 

You're alone.

Useless. Worthless. Shadows play across the walls, shades of cars and slender figures, fleeing the scene of whatever crime they committed here. You can't run from the crimes you committed like they do, the shackles of guilt, they chain you to the wall and keep you there no matter how you squirm.

Where else does your kind operate? 

You seperate yourself from the experience, you seperate yourself from your life and yourself. What you do is work, and work is work, pay is pay. You don't try to dwell on it much, try not to think much about who you used to be, what you used to want.

When you were just a kid, you wanted to be a pilot. A ninja-pilot-chaffeur-bodyguard, mind you, but still a pilot. Only the pilot part stuck, you were going to be a ninja as a hobby not a job, you decided. You dropped the ninja part too, eventually, but the pilot part stayed. It stuck. It fell off like a sticker as you shedded your skin to grow. You are a snake, some reptile now, you have no dreams because this world has no room for dreams, or mistakes. You aren't allowed to hope or dream anyways. Cling as you can, you're doomed to be let down. Doomed.

Doomed.

Doomed. Doomed like a paradox is doomed to never have an answer. Doomed like everyone is to die. Doomed like a timeline in that stupid dream you can't get out of your head because you know it happened but it can't have happened you can't both be Dave strider you're twins and he's your brother not yourself and you can't have watched four kids ascend to godship because you know them but you don't know them and you love or maybe not and maybe you're just fake and this timeline is doomed because you live and because you lived it's just you and Dave on this timeline and none of the others but no wait that's bullshit you're crazy but it happened and you can control time and you knew a girl who could manipulate space and a boy who had the winds and a sister you've never seen in your memory but known like your own two hands and you were on an asteroid and you knew fucking aliens which made your world and one was a pariah and and you created the green sun and took on armies and you were a knight and you could FLY and then shit went wrong or right earlier and you're orange and it was only you two left and only you two left alone the other two were dead and you were 13 and your bro died and you couldn't save him and you watch and you watched and and and STOP.

GET A FUCKING GRIP.

YOU'RE A STRIDER NOT A MENTAL PATIENT.

WAIT.

YOU'RE NOT A FUCKING STRIDER.

YOU ARE DAVID HARRY FUCKING DOE.

You are David Harold Doe.

You are David H. Doe and you're blubbering again about nightmares and old wive's tales. 

You are not Dave Strider and you've never been Dave Strider. Even in your dreams you aren't even Dave Strider. You're Davesprite when you dream, some screwed up copy of your actual brother, who gets to be the real Dave. Real, fake, what matters in a contraption of your brain. What matters even when it hurts you now, no, fuck how you feel. How you feel doesn't matter, you're David Harold Doe, prostitute, and the world doesn't care about you.

You weren't born a lucky one. You weren't meant to. Your brother was luckier, your family was luckier despite the trail of heartbreak that follows your mother and the addictions that took your father's life from him like it was years he breathed out instead of smoke and days he bet instead of cash.

You weren't born lucky. A younger brother to an absent asshole in a family that could barely support one child. No one knows where he went, not evern you, but you remember him well. You two could've easily been twins, take away some pieces. Your brother, Anthony, was about an inch taller with an affinity for beards and a wider frame. His most striking feature was the family albinism, which he always hid, hair dye and shades, eventually just the shades. He was luckier than you, maybe a little more handsome, maybe a little different charm. 

You always had to be the mature one, the careful one, even if you were younger, you had to watch out for him. You always had to watch over your Mom, your bro and whatever stray animals ended up at your house. Roll them both over when they passed out drunk. You wish you could've drank your problems away like they did, but who listens to the sinner's wishes? Who listens to the prayers of a mad man?

You weren't born for an easy life. You weren't born for cushy living where you could lean on your family or get a job or anything. Your asshole of a brother ran away when he was 18, you haven't seen him since. Your mother leaned on you and you shoved back. Your brother's troubles troubled you, he dropped out at 17 and did nothing but drink and pass out drunk, you stayed in until 18. This year, you would've been finishing your undergradutate, and he should have been on the second year of his music internship. Your mom shouldn't be forced to live in a homeless shelter away from you both because you can't support her. He shouldn't be just gone, away on the streets, unsupported too. You can't keep your family together, you can't support them.

You can't even support yourself.

You've just gone crazy from all the stress and the years of betting, alcohol and cigarettes. You're just delirious because you happen to be crazy. It's finally gotten to you, hasn't it? You've finally snapped.

And now you're just some jerk, facing his bad decisions.

You weren't born for love or luck or fame.

Different strings of different faces of different men litter your heart as your relationships, you broke off some and some broke off when you cheated, some left because you were horrible and one left because you told him of the game. You were so close to being happy and it was just taunting you, no, you weren't born to be happy.

Now you're here. Selling your body to whatever man will take it.

Many do.

It's the Strider charm, maybe this is what you were born for.

You hope this isn't what you were born for.

There's got to be more.

Please be more.


End file.
